


Spite Yourself

by Trobadora



Series: Miracle [6]
Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: Episode: s02e13 Exit Wounds, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-01
Updated: 2010-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This city has not enough air.</i> - Shortly after Exit Wounds, Jack grieves. The Doctor's visit isn't exactly what he was hoping for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spite Yourself

Jack leaves Ianto behind with vague excuses, leaves him with Gwen in the Hub. He can't be the steel at their backs, can't prop them up all the time. He has only so much strength. What if he falters?

He mustn't falter.

He's lived long enough to know that no matter how unbearable something seems, you can always go on. Not that he has a choice; he _will_ go on, no matter what. He'll always live on. But he'd learned that lesson long ago.

Losing his brother, that first time? Jack had gone on.

Two years of his life taken from him, the very organisation he'd devoted himself to suddenly an enemy? Jack had buckled up, headed straight for the action, reinvented himself.

Left behind by the one man he'd thought he could trust? Jack had gone looking for him, looking for answers, disappointment and fury and despair only driving his determination.

Losing Tosh and Owen? Jack hadn't even stopped for a second; he'd got right back into the saddle. For his own sake, and for Gwen's and Ianto's both.

This is what he does. He gets up again, brushes off the dust, moves on. It's the only thing he _can_ do.

And he'll make sure Gwen and Ianto don't fall behind. He'll make sure none of them falter. He'll hold them together, prop up their broken little family until they can begin to heal.

He won't lose them too; not yet.

But he's only human. Immortal or not, he's still human.

And that's why he's out here, alone: he needs a moment. He needs to get himself together, or he won't be any good for anyone.

_The end is where we start from._ Beautiful words, but they ring empty in his own ears.

He needs to _breathe_. But somehow there doesn't seem to be quite enough air.

Not in the streets; not down at the waterfront; not even up here on the roofs, even here in the wind. This city has not enough _air_.

Jack turns his face into the breeze and forces himself to take a deep lungful.

~*~

He's on his way back to the Hub, hardly refreshed but in control. Enough, at least.

Walking down the dimly lit street, he's lost in thought, but not so lost that he doesn't hear the rustle of fabric, the quiet footfall approaching from the alley he's just passing.

And he knows. Some part of him just knows.

Jack slows his steps, comes to a stand-still. But he doesn't turn around. He can feel his hands clench into fists; he makes an effort to relax them again.

The steps catch up to him, and when the voice comes, it's exactly the meaningless, empty phrase he expects: "I'm sorry."

Jack swallows. He doesn't need this. He really doesn't need this, not now of all times.

"Don't," he manages through clenched teeth.

The Doctor moves around him, faces him, looks at him with those brown eyes, familiar and inscrutable, and at any other time it would be a comfort.

Not now.

His friend; his lover. He shouldn't be surprised he's here, except that it's so unlike him. The Doctor may be fantastic in a crisis; when it's over he usually can't wait to get away. The Doctor doesn't _do_ clean-up, much less of the emotional kind. To come here now ... what the hell is this?

"Why are you here?" he asks, stupidly, tiredly. His face shows no emotion; that much control he does have.

The Doctor looks away, runs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," he repeats. There's something beneath the calm of his expression, a sense of nervous energy barely contained. At another time, Jack might know how to read it. Now he can't quite dredge up the interest to even attempt to unravel the eternal mystery that is the Doctor.

He wants to tell the Doctor to leave him alone; that this isn't the time.

"You could have helped," comes from his mouth instead.

The Doctor presses his lips together into a thin line. "Wasn't that your point?" His voice is sharp and a little petulant as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat. "Isn't that the whole point of Torchwood? I can't always be there."

Jack flinches back. He swallows hard, suppresses the urge to simply turn around and walk away. "Is it that you're allergic to tact, or do you just enjoy slapping people in the face?"

He regrets it as soon as he says it, but it's true, and he won't take it back.

They stare at each other, coldly furious, both of them.

Jack turns away first - doesn't he always? And today, he hates that about himself.

He can deal with the Doctor's supercilious attitude most of the time, even finds it charming on the good days, but not today.

Not today.

Having to deal with the Doctor's idea of ... what, _comfort_? On top of everything else, it's just too much. Not today.

"Go away," he says, squeezing the words out of a throat so tight it feels like he can't even breathe. Not looking at the Doctor. "Just ... go."

The Doctor throws up his hands in frustration. "Fine. That what you want? _Fine._" He turns around on the spot, strides away huffily.

Jack stands, rigidly, looking after him with burning eyes.

He knows he won't see the Doctor again any time soon. He knows he's cutting off his nose to spite his face, but the pain is good.

The Doctor is almost to the corner when he suddenly turns around again. He glares at Jack. "No," he spits out.

And with several long strides he's back, right in Jack's face. "No," he repeats. Just that.

Fine. He'll do the walking, then. Jack turns around - he's leaving - -

\- - and there's a hand on his biceps, spinning him around.

The Doctor holds him in place with two strong hands. His grip is too tight; Jack can't shake it off. He'd have to resort to actual violence. He's not there yet - not quite.

_Push me a little more and I will_, he thinks viciously.

"Let. Me. Go."

"No." The Doctor's voice is implacable now, his eyes unfathomable. "You forget who you're dealing with. You don't just turn your back on _me_."

"Oh, spare me." The Doctor can keep his Time Lord hubris to himself; Jack's not interested. Not today.

"Jack." The Doctor's voice is low, insistent. "I'm _sorry_." And he pulls Jack into a tight hug.

Jack remains stiff, doesn't respond. Every muscle is tense. His fists are tightly clenched again, fingernails biting into his palms. And something in his gut is pulled impossibly tight.

The Doctor lets him go then, scowling at him. "You think I don't know what you're doing? I'm better at it than you are."

Jack flinches.

"More likely to run myself, all right," the Doctor continues, relentlessly. "But I've done it to you, you know how it goes." He scowls then, half turns away, looks down, runs an agitated hand through his hair. Then he's back right in Jack's face. "You've stopped me once or twice, too. Didn't think I'd do the same for you?"

Jack's lip curls. Why would he? "You don't want to get into that right now," he snarls.

The Doctor doesn't back down. "May still run from you again, some day, all right," he admits. Even that is tossed out like a gauntlet. He turns his haughtiest glare on Jack. "But not when you're _pushing_."

And he looks furious and smug and utterly determined, bouncing on the balls of his feet, every inch of him a challenge - Jack hates every supercilious inch of him. With a satisfying _crunch_ his fist smashes into the Doctor's face.

The Doctor staggers back, but the smug look doesn't go away. He touches a hand to his bruised cheekbone, steps right back in front of Jack. "Go again, then. I'm sure I've done _something_ to deserve it at some point. C'mon, I'm right here - and I'm not going away."

Oh - oh _hell_, he can't do this. He can't do any of this. Why did he ever think this thing between them could work, the Doctor being who he is?

Both of them being who they are.

_I can't_, he thinks helplessly.

And he'll never be sure how the Doctor knows this is the right moment, but the next instant the Doctor's lips are on his, and they're kissing, furiously, noses bumping, teeth clacking against each other's.

Bruising, biting kisses, hands grappling with clothes, tearing at coats, at shirts. Jack slams the Doctor against a lamp post; the Doctor pushes him right back into a wall. They stumble along the street, around the corner, against the TARDIS door. Ripping open shirts and trousers, they tumble through, onto the floor. Jack lands on top of the Doctor. He presses his hands against the metal grating of the floor for leverage, pushes down hard, and they both groan as their cocks rub against each other.

There's nothing gentle about this, nothing loving. It's rough and furious and desperate, and all too soon Jack collapses on top of the Doctor, spent - all of him spent, the lust and the fury and even the grief drained right out of him.

For one long, blessed moment, he feels completely empty.

Eventually he rolls off the Doctor, who can't exactly be comfortable with his back on the metal grating, and sits up. He stretches out an apologetic hand. The Doctor takes it, lets Jack pull him into a sitting position.

"I'm sorry," Jack grinds out. "It wasn't ... I'm sorry."

"We both are." The Doctor's eyes show only understanding. Good. Jack's not sure he could have taken pity.

"I wish you'd been there," Jack whispers.

The Doctor looks at him sadly. "I wish I could promise I'll be."

Jack rubs a hand over his face. The Doctor wasn't here, and he might not be the next time he's needed, but he's here now. He came back for this, for the aftermath - _there's a first for you_, Jack thinks cynically - and he's here. He's here now, and he _wishes he could promise_, and that's something.

Something.

The Doctor pulls Jack against him, wraps his arms around him, loosely, not keeping him, just ... holding. Being there.

"I've got you," the Doctor says quietly.

Jack laughs - desperately, helplessly. "Yeah," he gasps between laughs, "yeah, you do."


End file.
